


the mage's intended

by the_ragnarok



Series: mage's intended [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Attempted Forced Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Dysphoria, Dehumanization, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Tags May Change, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Xenophilia, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25287901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Jon is the unwilling bride-to-be of the evil Mage,  Jonah Magnus. Martin is his slave, cursed into having a bestial form.
Relationships: Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: mage's intended [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930360
Comments: 170
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beastly Behaviour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147068) by [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing). 



> Not strictly a fic of "Beastly Behaviour" by prim_the_amazing, but strongly influenced by it.

Martin's scrubbing floors in the main hall when Jared comes in carrying the Mage's intended, kicking and shouting, "Let go of me!"

"Magnus' orders," Jared grunts, and carries the intended to his suite upstairs.

It's a nice suite. Martin's done his best to make it cosy and pleasant, and Magnus furnished it handsomely with bookshelves and a wide, soft bed. There are more pillows in the suite than there are in the rest of the palace; Martin may have eyed them with longing and furtively wondered whether the intended would really miss one.

Perhaps he wouldn't, but Magnus does not deal lightly with stealing. Martin left the room as it was, fit to receive the Mage's bride.

Martin's a bit sorry not to catch more than a flash of flailing limb of said bride. He's supposed to be a real beauty. Of course he must be, to tempt the Mage. More pity for him.

* * *

Martin's in the kitchen, washing dishes, when the order comes to bring the bride his lunch.

"You," the cook says, and Martin takes a moment to realize she means _him_. "Take up the tray."

"Me?" Martin says, glancing down at himself. His fur is wet from dishwater. He doesn't dare shake himself dry in the kitchen. 

The cook's mouth twists. "Magnus requested you specifically."

Magnus' word is law, so up Martin goes, careful that his hooved feet don't wobble on the stairs. He knocks on the intended's door. "Lunch is here." It feels odd, not to address the intended respectfully, but Martin has no idea what his name is and he doubts the intended would be happy being referred to as "consort-to-be". 

"Come in." The voice inside is curt, but deep and melodious.

Martin nervously inhales, opens the door.

True to the rumors, the man inside is beautiful. He's frowning in concentration, reading a thick tome, his dark hair gleaming silver at his temples. His long, elegant fingers tap against the pages. "Put it here," the man says, tapping a side-table. Martin silently complies. 

As he does, the man's eyes widen, and his head jerks up to stare. He shoves his chair back.

 _Oh._ So this was why Magnus wanted him, specifically: to strike fear into the heart of his intended.

"Sorry," Martin says, low. Sorry Magnus is keeping you, sorry for scaring you, sorry for existing. "I, I'll go." He knocks over another side table in his haste to get away.

* * *

Jon stares at the fallen side-table in distaste, then gives a similarly distasteful look to his lunch. There's nothing wrong with it that he can see, it looks and smells fine, but the _thing_ delivering it... Jonah's trying to send him a message, Jon has no doubt about it. As if being carried in kicking and screaming by that monstrous abomination of his wasn't enough. 

The new monster, at least, made no move to touch him.

Jon sighs. He returns to his book, resolutely ignoring his meal.

When the next knock on the door comes, Jon is better prepared. "Don't disturb me," he calls. 

To his slight surprise, the voice on the other end says, "I'll leave your dinner here, then. Could you put out the lunch tray so I can return it to the kitchen?"

Jon doesn't dignify this with an answer. He assumes the guard leaves, eventually.

* * *

"Magnus wants to see you," Jared tells Martin as he's polishing the silver.

Martin doesn't startle, but it's a close call. He puts the antique candlestick down carefully, and tries not to hyperventilate as he trots up the stairs.

The door to Magnus' office is open when Martin reaches it, and he can see the Mage inside, scribbling in a book. At least he and his intended have that much in common.

As though he could hear Martin thinking, Magnus says, "My intended has not been eating."

Martin freezes. "Oh, oh no," he says. "Is there something wrong with the food?" He doubts it's that. Nobody lets Martin cook if they can possibly avoid it 

Magnus' mouth is a tight line. "No. He is simply being stubborn." He raises his eyes, then, and Martin shudders as their icy blue focuses on him. "You are to make him eat."

Martin opens his mouth to ask _How?_ then shuts it again with a click. The Mage does not like to be questioned. Martin will have to figure something out.

He will likely fail, and be punished for it. That's how his life goes.

* * *

When Jon asks - well, demands - not to be disturbed, the door opens anyway. Jon sighs. He might have expected this. 

He steels himself, but still flinches as the monster enters his room. It's eight feet tall at least, covered in coarse brown fur, fangs jutting out of its mouth. "Yes?" Jon asks forcefully, to cover up the tremor in his voice. "What did you want?"

The monster puts down a tray piled with food. "You haven't been eating."

Jon stares at it and waits for it to make a salient point.

The monster does something with his jaw. "I'm not leaving until you clean your plate."

Well. That's new. "That's not very conducive if you want me to have an _apetite_ ," Jon says acidly.

The guard flinches, but holds its ground. "You need to eat," it says stubbornly. 

Jon crosses his arms and wills his rapid heartbeat to slow down. He's usually able to stare down just about anyone. People get unnerved, when you just _look_ at them. Jon never quite understood why.

The tactic is as effective as ever. The guard starts fidgeting. Soon enough, it says, "Look, it can't be pleasant, sitting hungry in your room. What do you have to gain by not eating?"

Jon spears him with a look and says nothing. 

The guard sighs. "Yes, I know, you don't want to be here. But if you think that Magnus," it looks nervously over its shoulder as it says the name, "will let you go because of a hunger strike..." he laughs without humor. "He'll find a way, and it won't be fun. Would you please eat?"

Jon shrugs. "The least I could do is put him to the effort of trying. Besides, he's not having a lot of luck so far. Unless it was your own initiative that brought you to stare at me like a gargoyle until I start chewing?"

"Is there anything I can do to get you to eat?" The guard's ear flicks. 

"Let me out of here," Jon immediately says.

"I can't do that," the guard says. After a short hesitation, he adds, "I'm sorry."

That feeble apology is what gets Jon well and truly furious. As if it _cared_. "Fine. I want your blood."

That gets the monster's attention, its ears flattening against the top of its skull. "What?"

"I want to see you bleed," Jon says. "Then I'll eat." That should call a halt to his pretense of helpfulness.

Except the guard says, "Oh," raises his forearm and runs one wickedly sharp claw down the back of it. The fur mats and darkens around it. "I don't want to drip on the floor," the guard says, with a hitch in his voice. "But it doesn't show very well like this--"

Abruptly, Jon says, "Fine. I'll eat."

The guard stares at him. "You will?"

"I promised, didn't I?" Despite his nausea, Jon blindly picks up the cutlery, and shoves a forkful of something - rice, it turns out - into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and wills it to stay down. "Well? Go do something before it drips on the floor."

The guard flees. Jon stares bleakly at his plate and washes down each bite with cold water.

In the evening, when Jonah makes his regular visit, Jon says, "Don't send up that guard anymore. It makes me sick to look at him."

Jonah gives him an indulgent smile. "Anything for my bride-to-be." For once, Jon doesn't feel right yelling at Jonah not to call him that.

* * *

Martin spends the next two days locked in the dusty little cupboard in the attic, on bread and water rations. It's practically a vacation. 

After that, he's not tasked with giving the intended his meals. That feels like more punishment than the lockup, if he's honest, even though it's probably the simple result of his failure. It means no more chances to look at the intended, or hear his voice. It's probably just as well: he has enough worries without Martin gawking at him.

At least the intended's eating now: Martin sees Jared returning the empty trays from his room to the kitchen. 

"Oh, nice of his highness to deign to eat my food," says the cook, when Martin remarks on this. "Not like I slaved over it or anything."

For a moment, Martin is silent. Then he says, "I'm sure he doesn't mean to be rude. He's in a bad situation."

The cook snorts. "Show me a single person in the palace who isn't, barring the Mage. And none of us get nice rooms and all our meals delivered, either."

Martin still feels like that should make them kinder to him, but he says nothing.

* * *

Jared gives him a smile with too many teeth. "Your meal, pretty bride." He sets the tray down too hard, and its contents slosh over, threatening to stain the books.

Jon doesn't say anything. It's best to stay quiet and still, get these interactions over with. He picks up the fork and stares at his food. 

"Aw, no yelling?" Jared's teeth are inhumanly pointed. "Cat got your tongue? Maybe I should ask Magnus for it. I doubt he needs you to have one." His gaze goes down Jon's form, slimy as pondweed. Jon's hand tightens on the fork. "I can think of some reasons he might want it, though."

 _Please go away_. Jon doesn't voice the thought. It only makes Jared stay longer when he does. 

Of course Jared only comes closer. "You are a pretty one." His voice is so low Jon can barely understand him. "Sure I can't tempt you to a ride before you're married? Trust me, old man Magnus does not have the heat I'm packing." He lays a big, meaty hand on Jon's thigh.

Before Jon can think better of it, he's stabbing the fork into Jared's hand. 

Jared stares at him, then bursts out laughing. "Cute," he says, once he's calmed down. He puts his hand next to the dinner tray, fork still embedded. "Hey, want to see a trick?" He takes the dinner knife from the tray and holds it over his little finger.

"No need," Jon says, bile rising. "I believe you."

Jared snorts, and saws down with the knife. The blood splatters everywhere. Jon closes his eyes and turns away, but he can still hear the sounds. 

"There we go," Jared says. Even now, curiosity wins. Jon looks to see Jared's severed finger, and the ragged stump of where it lay a moment ago. It's healed already.

"It'll take me about a week to grow a new one," Jared says. He has blood on his face. It doesn't seem to bother him. "Perks of working for old man Magnus, you know?" He wipes the knife on his shirt and puts it back on the tray, giving Jon an expectant look. "Well? Eat up."

* * *

"I thought we were done with this nonsense," Jonah says, easing himself into Jon's room. "Jared says you stabbed him with a fork, as well."

"Didn't seem to bother him much," Jon mutters. 

"Well, yes, but it's the principle of the thing." Jonah regards him evenly. "Unless there was an inciting incident?" Jon would rather bite off his tongue than admit it, but he doesn't need to. Jonah can skim it off his mind well enough. Jonah's face darkens. "Ah. Can't have some brute making my virgin bride uncomfortable, can I?"

Jon smiles at Jonah and thinks very intensely about a complex Latin passage from a book he'd been reading. Jonah laughs and pats his thigh. Jon keeps translating in his mind; it keeps him from stabbing Jonah, as well.

"I'm afraid I'll have to return your previous guard," Jonah says. "I only have so many men at my disposal." He chuckles. "For a very broad meaning of _men_ , anyway."

Jon nods and mentally conjugates verbs until Jonah leaves.

There is still a tingle of shame at the thought of facing his previous guard, but Jon banishes it. The wound must have healed before the beast left his room. Silly of Jon, to think that any of Magnus' monsters would hurt itself significantly for his benefit. 

Hopefully, the guard would still be willing to cooperate with the idea hatching furtively in the recesses of Jon's mind. He may have hope yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin does not allow himself to shake, standing at the door to the intended's suite. He does drag in a surprised little breath when his knock is answered with, "Come in."

Today, the intended is sitting on the bed clad in a bathrobe. His dark eyes rest on Martin, who ducks his head. 

Martin sets his lunch on a side table and casts an eye around the room for trash or dirty dishes, anything that might need to be taken out. Finding none, he straightens and turns to the door. 

"Wait," the intended says. 

Martin halts. "Yes? Do, do you need anything?" 

"I want a bath."

That's easily enough achieved. Magnus has a magical system to draw and heat up the water, and all Martin needs to do is turn a tap and wait. The intended's suite has its own bathroom with a large, claw-foot tub. Martin turns on the water, testing it on the furless inside of his wrist to check if it's not too hot. 

"Oh," the intended says, so close that Martin almost jumps. He looks and there the intended is, standing a step behind him. Not a larger step. "Is it so simple to draw a bath?"

"Oh, yes," Martin says, grateful for the conversational topic. "See, you turn the left one for hotter water, and the right for colder water..." he explains the function of the rest of the tub's various knobs. "Did you want me to put in some bath salts for you? Scented oils?"

The intended hesitates. Finally, abruptly, he asks, "Do you have a name?"

"I, yes, I do." Martin waits uncertainly as the intended watches him. Then he realizes the intended is waiting for an answer. "It's Martin."

The intended blinks. "I'm Jon," he says in return. 

"Jon." Martin tries not to linger for too long on that single syllable. Jon's name suits him perfectly. "Um." He gestures at the full tub. "I'll just..." He starts retreating.

Jon fixes him with a look. "Stay."

Martin freezes in his tracks. He can think of absolutely no reason why Jon would want that, but he did just say, and Martin's fairly sure that failing to comply with the wishes of the Mage's intended is a good way to earn himself a punishment.

Well. His wishes that don't have to do with escaping Magnus, anyway. 

Jon undoes the belt of his robe. Martin blinks and starts turning away. 

"Stay, I said." Jon's voice has a bite that makes Martin shiver, not entirely in a bad way. Martin stands still, but keeps his eyes downcast. 

He still sees the pile of fabric left when the robe hits the floor, and for one moment his gaze catches onto Jon's narrow ankle. Martin hastily redirects his attention to his own hooves. 

He hears the muted splash as Jon enters the tub. 

A moment passes quietly, nothing but the faint sloshing as Jon washes. Martin allows himself to breathe. 

Then Jon says, "Wash my back, please." It's clear from his tone that this is, in fact, an order. 

Martin's having trouble breathing. Little sparks appear in the corners of his eyes. "What?"

"I asked you," Jon says, "to wash my back. Well?" he adds, a minute later, when Martin still hasn't moved. 

"O-okay!" Martin squeaks. He can do this. It won't be the first time he'd bathed someone, far from it. He takes in a bracing breath. That's a mistake, because the steam of the bath carries Jon's scent, dizzyingly intimate when they're not even within touching range. With shaking paws, Martin picks up a washcloth.

"While I'm young, please," Jon says waspishly. 

Martin closes his eyes, exhales, and rubs the cloth down Jon's back. His ribs and vertebrae are prominent. Martin remembers the cook clucking about Jon when he'd just arrived, about how he'd needed feeding up. The attempted hunger strike probably had not helped.

Jon's skin, heated from the water, burns its way to Martin's fingers. 

He manages to finish, somehow. As he contemplates escape, Jon says, "Now my front." He sounds odd, but Martin's not in a great place to figure out why.

Jon leans back, but remains still and tense as Martin circles around. He sees Jon opening his mouth to snap at him again. Before Jon can speak, Martin says, "If you tell me what you need, I might be able to help you think of an alternative you hate less."

Jon shuts his mouth and stares at Martin with wide eyes.

"I'm not sure why you're not washing yourself," Martin says, "but I could maybe ask someone else to do it, someone," human, "less scary. Or if it's, um, if you don't like how the washcloth feels, I can find something else that's softer, or whatever you need."

A long, awkward silence stretches out. Martin stares determinedly at his hooves. The water makes faint glugging noises as Jon breathes. Finally Jon says, "Get out."

Martin does, immediately. He's not sure if he's sorry or grateful.

* * *

Jon flops back into the tub and stares at the ceiling. Well. That was a disaster.

For his entire life he'd had people touching him when he didn't want them to. And now, when his vengeance on Jonah hung on this guard's assistance, said guard acted like Jon was made of wasps and venomous snakes. 

Was he afraid of Jonah's retaliation, if he touched Jon? He still has no idea if Jared suffered any consequences beyond Jon's own pathetic outburst. 

_Perhaps,_ says a voice in the recesses of his own mind, _cutting sarcasm is not very seductive._

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. Sarcasm had never saved him from unwanted groping before. Why does it have to get in the way now?

Still. Maybe he needs to be sweeter. He could try, anyway.

* * *

Bringing the intended - Jon - supper goes on without a hitch. Jon doesn't even look at him, only points at where he wants Martin to set the tray. Martin breathes a little easier. Jon even mumbles something that sounds like "Thank you."

It's soon evident that his relief was premature. 

The next day at breakfast, Jon pierces him with a look and says, "Why don't you wear anything?" He's still in bed, sitting up under the covers, and has Martin set his tray on the bedside table. 

"Um?" Martin blinks at him. He stares down to see nothing but his own familiar ugly fur. "I, I wouldn't really fit in most trousers. The fur covers everything, so nobody minds."

With that unrelenting gaze, Jon says, "And you're not cold?"

Martin flounders. It's not a question anyone asked him before. "I'm used to it?"

Jon's jaw sets. He pushes up the covers and tells Martin, "You should come under the blankets." His expression isn't inviting so much as determined.

Without meaning to, Martin takes a step back. "I really think I shouldn't." His voice climbs up half an octave. Unbidden, the memory of Jon's scent from the day before comes to mind. Being wrapped up in a blanket soaked in that scent is something Martin can barely imagine, a white-hot brand across his mind. 

"But you're cold," Jon says, with a frown. "And I asked you."

Not to mention that those blankets will have Jon himself under them. That, Martin cannot process at all. In his desperation, he says, "It's not proper."

Jon levels an incredulous glare at him. "Oh, so kidnapping me is proper, but coming into my bed explicitly invited isn't?"

Rather than arguing, Martin flees, heart beating triple time in his chest.

* * *

It's another sleepless night. Jon's well acquainted with those. He stubbornly stays in bed, counting cracks in the ceiling where they're visible in the faint moonlight. 

None of his attempts have worked. Maybe it's time to come up with another plan.

In the little hours before dawn, another idea comes. He'll try that one, then, before he declares this entire idea a wash. He'd seen the servers at the tavern use that technique to get bigger tips many times. It's bound to work.

* * *

When Martin enters the room, to his mixed relief and disappointment, Jon is fully dressed and sat in his chair. Martin puts down the tray and begins to leave.

Before he can go, Jon stands up. He looks Martin right in the eye, although he has to look a considerable distance up to manage this. "Thank you," Jon says, and lays a hand on Martin's shoulder.

Martin tries to respond. What comes out is a tiny squeak. Jon's hand is warm, he feels the heat of it seeping through his fur, and Jon is standing so close, close enough for Martin to see all the different shades of brown in his dark, pretty eyes. 

_Enthralled_ , Martin thinks dumbly, the simple touch holding him prisoner as thoroughly as any lock and key. 

Jon eventually let go. He has a smug little smile on his face. It suits him. "I believe you can go now," Jon says, focusing back on his books.

Martin goes, so shaky it's a miracle he doesn't drop the tray with lunch's dirty dishes. He manages to return to his spot by the sink without anyone noticing or saying anything. The place where Jon touched him still tingles with aftershocks. It's the first time he's been touched gently since....

...In a long time, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Jon repeatedly propositioning (and exposing himself to) an obviously distressed Martin. Jon recalling previous harassment he'd endured.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to hiri for a quick readthrough and opinions!
> 
> Please heed the content notes at the end, and let me know if there's anything I forgot to add.

At supper time, Martin doesn't knock on Jon's door. Instead, a cold-eyed woman, almost as tall as Martin, comes in. "The Mage wants you to eat with him."

The knife strapped to her muscled thigh is as long as Jon's forearm. He goes.

Jonah waits in his chambers, which are opulently appointed. Jon heard from Melanie that the rich dined next to long, narrow tables, where you had to should from one end to be heard in the other. He doesn't know that he believes her: Melanie was only a maid for a week before getting fired for talking back to the mistress of the manor, and anyway she liked to tell him things that weren't true and then laughed when he believed her, a joke Jon never understood the point of.

There's no such table in Jonah's room, at any rate, just a handsome redwood desk and a small glass-topped table where their plates await. If Jon doesn't sit directly across from Jonah, he'll be within touching range.

Jon sits directly across.

There are honest to God candles lit on the table, reflecting off the antique silver of the candleholders. The goblets of wine are matchingly made silver. (Carved? You can't carve silver, Jon's pretty sure.)

"How were the candles made?" Jon asks, because that's bound to be better than any conversational topic that Jonah comes up with himself.

Jonah beams at him. "I believe I have a book about the technique here, somewhere..." He goes off and searches his library.

Jon looks at Jonah, limned by candlelight. He's not ugly, Jon supposes. If he's old - which rumor says he is - he doesn't look it. He could have had Jon marry him willingly, probably, if he'd cared enough to try; certainly there weren't any other candidates for the position, what with Jon's entire personality. He didn't see himself as cut out for marriage, anyway, but he would have made an exception for Jonah's library.

Jon is suddenly, blindly certain that Jonah knew all this, and chose to take him by force anyway, simply because he could.

Jonah turns back abruptly, as if he heard a noise. "Ah," he breathes, looking at Jon with a too-knowing gaze. "What was that?"

Jon keeps it at the top of his mind. The thought, and his ensuing contempt for Jonah, aren't worth hiding.

To Jon's subsequent bafflement, Jonah chuckles. "Lovely," he says. "They're coming along swimmingly."

Jon crosses his arms. He refuses to play whatever game Jonah's playing.

The question is still on his mind, though, and Jonah picks it up. "Your powers, of course." His eyes glitter. "You didn't think I married you for your looks, did you, Jonathan?" He looks Jon blatantly up and down. "As appealing as they are."

_I thought you just wanted a virgin,_ Jon thinks, as hard and vicious as he can manage.

Jonah actually laughs. "That helps, of course," he says. "Virginities can be put to many interesting uses." He tuts. "You won't have to worry about your powers for very long, of course. Not when your husband will share in everything you are."

Jon hisses when he draws breath, and along with the air he takes in a mental image of Jonah above him, naked, rutting away, himself squirming and crying.

Jonah beams at him smugly. "It's uncouth to shout, even in mindmagic," he says, "but at the risk of seeming juvenile, you started it." He sits down at the table. "Well? Won't you eat?"

"Lost my appetite," Jon says, low-voiced.

Jonah looks at him, and Jon can see the scales tipping behind his cool eyes, making a decision of whether to deal with Jon's defiance with swift and brutal punishment, or...

"Suit yourself," Jonah says lightly, and tucks in.

After the meal is done, while the cold-eyed woman who brought him lurks in the doorway, Jonah says, "Oh, I wanted to let you know that I will be gone for the next week." He smiles brightly. "I trust you will behave. Or, if you are moved to misbehave, that you remember I will reward your behavior according to its merit."

Jon nods. He stares at the floor all the way to his room, and tries to think of nothing at all.

* * *

The quill snaps in his hand, ink spreading every which way. Jon curses, searching for anything to clean it up. He can't seem to concentrate, thoughts going around in circles.

At least Jonah is away. He left that morning, and demanded Jon come kiss him goodbye. Jon just about refrained from biting off his face. Jon has a week, now, to bring his plan to fruition.

The knock on his door finds him washing his hands. He's toweling them dry when Martin enters. He puts Jon's tray on the usual side-table. He straightens much slower than he'd need to.

Jon needs to go to him, continue with the campaign of soft touches that had led to some success, but he can't bear the thought. And yet, if he doesn't go, then he will lose precious time. He's progressing so slowly as it is. What if Jonah returns before he succeeds? 

"Jon?" Martin says, voice low. "Is everything alright?"

Much like his quill, Jon snaps. "Why would you ask that?" he hisses. "When, since I've set foot in this wretched castle, has anything been _alright_?"

Martin looks at him with his beast-like, all black eyes. "Just, if I can do anything to make it better?"

His pity is unbearable. The only things Jon has needed from him, he wouldn't give. Why is he pretending to want to help? Is Martin mocking him? What can Jon ask from him that will matter?

In the back of Jon's mind, a cold, clear answer crystalizes. He blinks.

"Jon?" 

Jon turns to him, and with deliberation, he tells Martin, "Sit down." He pulls his shirt out of his trousers, pulls it off his head without undoing the buttons first, faintly registering the strings popping.

"What," Martin starts. Then he looks at Jon's face, and falls silent. He keeps staring at the floor as the rest of Jon's clothes make their way down.

"I said _sit_ ," Jon says. With abrupt movement, Martin sits on his ankles, stare still fixed on the floor. The obedience doesn't help, doesn't matter: Jon is a prisoner, and Martin is his guard. Jon has no power to keep Martin on his knees.

He might as well take advantage of Martin's playing along while he can. Jon plants himself over Martin's lap, straddling his thighs.

* * *

"Oh," Martin says, stupidly. "Oh."

The branding heat of Jon's skin is now on his legs, and on his shoulders where Jon has taken hold. Jon's skin, bare and brown in his lap, darker than his fur and soft as sin. Martin will die if he can't touch him. Martin will die if he will.

Jon's pupils are swallowing up the iris, his breath coming in short pants. His hair tumbles in black-and-silver waves down his back. Martin makes an inhuman noise, the kind he normally suppresses.

He tries. He digs his claws into his own thighs, heedless of the blood stains he will leave behind. The pain only makes him more aware of the situation, of _Jon_. He thinks of the worst names his mother had called him, thinks of the worst punishments Magnus had dealt. None of it makes the horrifying warmth between his legs go away.

Martin whimpers as his cock draws free of his sheath, red and wet and disgusting. It rises, it can't seem to stop growing, like it wants to reach Jon despite everything Martin can do.

Jon studies it, and for a moment, that horrible twisted expression is gone, leaving only curiosity. "Oh. Huh." Then he sets his jaw and attempts to mount Martin.

It doesn't work. Martin can't see what's happening very well, only feels as his cock catches and chafes on dry skin.

After three attempts, Jon stops. "God damnit." There is something fragile in his expression, and it makes Martin's heart thump painfully. "I almost--" He tries to mount him again, and this time Martin can feel himself moving in, a bit, though Jon is so tight that it _pinches_.

Worse than that, though, is the expression on Jon's face, him gritting his teeth. "Please," Martin whispers. "I don't want to hurt you."

Jon's mouth firms into a tight line. "I need something wet," he says. "Something to slick the way, since _my body_ isn't doing it." He sounds aggrieved by this, almost betrayed.

Martin casts his gaze around the room. "Not the scented oils. If they're not diluted, they can burn your skin. You could put them into a tub of water, I suppose, since you wanted wetness..." He becomes abruptly aware that he's babbling, and shuts up.

Jon looks back at him, focusing. "You're drooling," he says softly.

Martin tries to furtively wipe his mouth. He can't help it. He doesn't have _lips_ anymore.

Jon puts two fingers right next to Martin's mouth, rubs them against his thumb. "Slippery," Jon says, thoughtfully. He raises himself up, tries to put the drool-slick fingers inside himself, and winces, the expression drawing on into a grimace.

"Let me," Martin blurts out. "Let me get you wet." He's expecting Jon to ignore him and carry on, but instead Jon gives him another look and nods. With some ensuing courage, Martin says, "You should lie on the bed, then you won't hurt your back."

Jon gets up, but before he does, he snags Martin's wrist in his, like he wants to be sure Martin won't run away. Jon's own wrist is so delicate next to Martin's forearm.

Jon lies down on the bed. Martin settles himself between Jon's legs and exhales. "Right. Tell me if I'm hurting you, or, or doing something wrong. Please?"

"Like I'd know," Jon says flatly.

_It's his first time._ Martin knew that, of course he did, but the fact never had reason to ping so loudly across his mind.

Oh, God, don't let Martin screw this up.

He takes a deep breath, and whines. The air is full of Jon's scent, more intimate than anything he'd experienced in his life, salty with a faint sour tinge of fear. Martin needs to be careful, he knows, but suddenly he feels like he's been dying of thirst for his entire life and now a cool, clear pond lies stretched before him.

Martin lowers himself and dives in.

* * *

Jon lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. He stifles a giggle at the first touch of Martin's tongue; he'd never been touched in that place, and the feeling is odd, ticklish. Not bad, though.

Martin makes a sound, which makes his tongue quiver. _Oh_ , Jon thinks, blinking. _That was quite nice._ Then Martin does it again.

He realizes that he's holding on to Martin's short, blunt horns. He's not certain when that happened, but his hands seem very insistent on pulling Martin closer.

Martin does not appear to mind this. He makes a whole array of noises, and Jon is almost distracted by them when Martin's tongue pushes _in_ , and oh.

He'd never felt anything like this. He'd tried, with his fingers, but they weren't this wet, weren't attached to a person mindlessly set on putting as much of his mouth on Jon's parts as physically possible. Martin's tongue _squirms_ inside him, touching something that at first feels like needing to piss and then, suddenly, very, very good.

Jon realizes that he's also making noises, now.

He wonders how many times Martin has done this. It must be a learned skill; Jon surely wouldn't know his way around anyone's parts this well. It's like Martin can tell every time a touch feels good, because he does it over and over.

There's something hard pressing against Jon's entrance, and it takes him a moment to realize those are Martin's fangs. That realization should not result in him squeaking and pulling Martin closer, but there he is, the edge of danger making his skin run hotter.

And he _is_ getting hotter, feeling himself swept away by Martin's mouth on him, dragged higher, pulled more taut until he's sure he'll rip apart, burn alive. He can't even bring himself to care, as long as he can have more of _this_.

It becomes more, and more, until something huge sweeps through him, so intense he thinks at first it's pain, sure that the wetness he feels gushing from him is blood. Martin groans and rubs his face in it, which doesn't help the impression.

It doesn't smell like blood, though. Just like him, when he wakes up from dreams he can't remember. 

"Oh," he says, light headed. He closes his eyes. He half feels like he's dreaming already. Another second and he'd be--

* * *

"Jon?" Martin says, for the third time. His heart, which never slowed down, is racing again in panic. Had he done anything to Jon?

He sees Jon's mouth open, and startles when Jon lets out a snore.

Martin's fear breaks down into hysterical giggles. Asleep. Jon fell asleep. That's it. 

After waiting for a few minutes, Martin tucks the blanket around Jon's sleeping form. He takes the pillow he rutted into, grimaces and strips its case. He'll have to wash this himself, preferably tonight. 

He'll have to make sure he's the one who changes the sheets, as well. It smells, intoxicatingly, like Jon, but Martin's changed enough bed linens to know people's beds don't smell like this from solo activities. That can probably wait until tomorrow. Washing Jon's sheets is not a sought-for duty among the staff. 

Martin washes himself up in Jon's tub, guiltily dries himself with one of Jon's fluffy towels. If he leaves the room - or himself - wet, he'll have to face questions he doesn't want to answer.

A little light laundry later, he makes it to his cot without incident. He lies in it, and continues on lying, unable to sleep. He keeps remembering how his own cock had looked. His fingers flex. He hadn't tried to claw his cursed flesh off in years, and now the urge is hitting him again, as thick as Jon's scent had been in his nose. 

_Don't_ , Martin admonishes himself. _You'll make a mess, and maybe they'll make you stop serving Jon._

That idea sticks in his throat. He doesn't know if he wants that to happen or dreads it. The idea of seeing Jon again, acting like nothing had happened, makes him sweat unpleasantly under his fur.

The idea of never seeing him again is worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Jonah sexually harassing Jon  
> \- Jon coercing Martin into sex, without realizing that's what he's doing  
> \- Martin experiencing powerful dysphoria  
> \- Thought of self-harm  
> \- Explicit xeno sex
> 
> No explicit words are used for Jon's genitalia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to Exmoose and TwoDrunkCelestials for looking at this before I posted and offering encouragement!
> 
> Jon uses the word 'vagina' to describe his genitals in this chapter.

At breakfast time, Jon had been too groggy to say anything, had just half-sat up in bed so Martin could put the tray in his lap. By the time his mind was operational, Martin was long gone. It didn't help that Jon had slept well that night, better than he'd slept in years.

Well. Now he's awake, and lunch time is approaching. He knows what he needs to do. He brushes away his twisting discomfort. Martin had done what Jon told him, hadn't he? It was fine. It must have been.

Even so, when Martin knocks, Jon is struck by an overwhelming urge to send him away, to ask him to leave the tray outside and go. He ruthlessly swallows that down and orders Martin inside. He can do this. He just needs to order Martin to sit down again, take off his clothes again....

Martin puts down his lunch tray and asks, "Why didn't you just say you were trying to get back at Magnus?"

Jon blinks at him. “How did you know?” he blurts.

Martin gives him a flat look. “You don’t exactly have a wealth of other reasons to bed me.”

Jon rallies. "Excuse me for thinking you wouldn't want to defy him."

Martin shrugs his massive shoulders. "Well, you thought wrong. What do you need from me?"

One of those moments of clarity hits Jon. Martin always asks these questions. How can he help, what does Jon need. There's something about that, something there, but Jon can't make sense of it.

It doesn't matter right now. Jon says, "Jonah wants a virgin. I need not to be one."

Martin swallows. "Right. And that means... um."

Jon rolls his eyes. "That means you fuck me, with your cock, in my vagina. Clear enough?"

"Crystal," Martin says faintly. Then he shakes his head. "Could you get pregnant?"

"Maybe." Jon hadn't given that a lot of thought. "If I saddle Jonah with a bastard, is it any less than he deserves?"

"I don't know and I don't care." Martin's tone is sharp in a way Jon's never heard from him. "Think for a moment. Can you imagine what Magnus would do with a baby he has reason to hate?"

Jon... very carefully doesn't think about it. He doesn't need those nightmares. He does say, "I see your point. I could drink some goldenrod tea afterward, if I had any."

"I can get that for you," Martin says. "Anything else?"

"Unless you've changed your mind about fucking me right now, no, thank you," Jon says, cutting. Martin just nods and leaves.

* * *

Getting the goldenrod is easy. There's a patch growing right behind the castle, although it's almost been picked bare already. Martin goes there at night, when he has no other tasks.

In the morning, he hesitates. Bringing Jon the goldenrod tea with his breakfast seems... presumptuous? Besides, wouldn't it get cold while they... did what they did? Maybe Martin ought to come up with the herb as it is, unsteeped, and step out to make Jon tea after they're... done.

God, listen to him. Can't he even _think_ the word "fuck" like a normal person?

It's just that applying the word to Jon seems wrong. Crude.

_Would you rather imagine you're making love to him?_ Martin thinks, as scathing as he can make it. No. That's not for the likes of him. Jon is forced to bed him. Martin is an instrument of revenge, nothing more, and that's more than he had any right to hope for.

He hides the goldenrod deep in his fur, and brings Jon his breakfast.

* * *

"Now?" Jon asks, when Martin fishes out the rumpled plant from the depths of his fur. Oh, joy, furry tea. Jon doesn't suppose he has a right to complain, though, under the circumstances.

Martin fidgets, which is exceedingly odd to see an eight-foot monster doing. "Unless you'd rather wait?"

They each stare at the other. "You first," Jon says, which he realizes is not exactly mature.

Martin hunches and hisses, "I can't just - _go_ on command!"

That's not how it seemed to Jon, last time, but he supposes Martin had some encouragement then. "Alright," he says, long suffering, and takes off his sleeping gown. "Lie down on the bed."

Martin remains standing. "Are you going to try to take me dry again? Because I don't think that's going to work."

Jon groans. "Then you run the show, if you know so much about how it ought to go," he says waspishly.

Something in Martin's posture changes. Something in his eyes, maybe. "Yeah." The fur around his mouth is darkening, wet with saliva. "You lie down," he tells Jon.

Jon did ask. He lies down.

* * *

Martin's legs hurt, not made for kneeling. Jon's heels are digging insistently into his back.

Martin is in heaven.

He doesn't quite have feeling in his horns, but when Jon grabs them, he feels each tiny movement of his hands echoing through his skull. Jon is all he can taste, all he can smell, all he can feel, tongue insistently pushing inside Jon to wring more beautiful noises out of him.

Jon sounds amazing. At the beginning, he giggles; then the giggles transform into gasps and whimpers and groans, Jon holding onto him for dear life as though there was anywhere else Martin wanted to be.

Like this - Martin's face buried between Jon's legs - everything is perfect. Martin doesn't have to remember what he looks like. Jon's too saturated in pleasure to smell afraid.

And still, Martin has to back away for a bit.

Jon gives him the most endearing pout. "Why'd you stop?" he complains.

For a moment, Martin wonders that himself. Then memory crashes down on him. "You said," the words taste like bile in his mouth, "this isn't enough for what you needed." Because Jon isn't bedding Martin for fun, after all. He's doing it to get back at Magnus. A sentiment that Martin wholeheartedly supports, but it still stings to think about.

"Right." Jon tries to focus, and squirms. "But are you sure you couldn't...? Just a bit more?"

Martin is not strong. With a groan, he dives back into Jon, greedy to make him come again.

Ten minutes later, with Jon snoring away, Martin looks up blankly and says, "I don't know what I was expecting."

* * *

At lunch, Jon doesn't answer when Martin knocks. Martin opens the door and finds him still asleep. An, "Oh," escapes Martin, more tender than he meant for it to be. After laying down the tray, he reaches out to adjust Jon's blanket, then snatches his own hand back. No. That's not for him.

* * *

Jon wakes up to find his lunch growing cold and no Martin in sight. Right. This is ridiculous.

At dinner time. Jon lurks in wait, naked under the covers. "Put down the tray and come over here," he tells Martin.

Martin hangs back. "I should get your ready."

"I'm still wet from earlier." If he'd also spent the hour earlier thinking very intensely about how it felt to have Martin's tongue in him, well, nobody needs to know. "Come here already."

Martin comes close, but seems awkward. "If you, um, got on hands and knees," he says, "then you wouldn't have to look at me."

Jon isn't certain why that should matter. Anyway, "I thought you'd lie on your back, and then I'd choose how fast to go."

Martin nods. "Right! Right. Um."

Jon rolls his eyes and pushes away the blanket. It's nice, actually, the way Martin's eyes linger helplessly on his naked body. Jon points at the empty part of the mattress and stares at Martin until he lies down.

Getting on top of Martin is a little awkward. "I'm going to put my hands on you," Jon says, not sure why he's saying that.

Martin giggles, high and nervous. "I thought that might happen, yes."

Then there's nothing to do except climb Martin like a furry hill. His cock is still nowhere to be seen, hidden in his fur, so Jon straddles the approximate location he remembers it being. He braces his forearms against Martin's chest. His hair falls around both their faces like a curtain.

"A bit lower," Martin says, strangled.

Jon looks behind him, and ah, yes: here's Martin's cock, peeking out of its sheath. Jon takes a moment to examine him. Martin's cock isn't quite human, of that Jon is certain, but he's not sure what species it resembles. Martin's overall appearance seems a mix: wolf's fangs, cow's horns, he has no idea what Martin's face is supposed to be except an overall impression of _animal_.

Now, however, is not the time for comparative anatomy. Jon shuffles until he can get Martin's cock in him, trying not to tense up too much. If it hurts, so be it. It can't be worse than it would be with Jonah.

"Are you sure?" Martin asks him.

If Jon wasn't before, he is now. Before he can change his mind, he kneels over Martin's cock and tries to take it in. It doesn't work at first pass. Jon has to find it with his hands and guide it inside him as Martin makes a noise like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

Jon doesn't make a sound, because he's stunned silent. Martin's big. It's just... a lot. 

“Jon?” 

“I’m okay,” Jon says thickly. “Give me a minute.” Then he takes a breath, lets it out, and pushes down.

It’s like Martin’s cock won’t _end_. Jon takes, and takes, and there’s still more. 

“You don’t have to,” Martin pants. “Not more than you want. We c-could stop.”

“No.” Jon closes his eyes and keeps taking. “I’m going to do this properly.”

“There’s really no such thing as-- aaaaah,” Martin says, when Jon squeezes around him. “Oh God, oh my God, Jon!”

That’s more along the line of appropriate sex conversation, Jon believes. 

Finally, eons later, his arse is settled in Martin’s lap. “I think that’s all of it.” Jon lets out a shaky breath. “Huh. I thought it was supposed to hurt.” He keeps perching there, only a little uncomfortable with the intrusion of Martin inside him. He could get used to this.

Eventually Martin whimpers and says, “Could you move? Please?”

Jon blinks. “Oh! Right. Yes. Moving.” He tentatively rises a bit, then pushes back down. “Like this?”

Then there are clawed hands on his hips. “Can I?” Martin asks, low and out of breath. Jon can feel the points of his claws, but they don’t break the skin.

“Go ahead,” Jon says.

Martin doesn’t push him or force him, just gently guides his movement so that Jon moves on his cock in long strokes, up and down. It’s a bit of a workout, honestly, and Jon’s about to ask if maybe Martin would like to take a turn on top when Martin brings him back to his lap and holds him there.

“What,” Jon starts, but then he sees Martin’s eyes rolling back, the all-black replaced by white. “Are you coming?” Then he yelps, and asks, rather more urgently, “What the hell is that?”

There’s something _swelling_ inside him, stretching him, and _now_ it hurts. Jon tries to squirm away, and Martin’s hands drop off his hips but when Jon tries to sit up the swelling _pulls_ at him from the inside. He makes a noise he would absolutely refuse to classify as a whimper. “Get it out,” Jon says urgently. “Martin, it hurts, take it out!”

Martin, even still locked in the throes of orgasm, tries. But when he does, all that happens that pulling again, until Jon feels like he’d be ripped apart. “Okay, stop, stop, you can stay inside. Stop.”

Martin blinks up at him. “What happened?” he rasps.

Jon glares. “You’re asking me? It’s your body!”

“How would I know? I’ve never done this before!”

Jon digests this. “Really?”

“I was cursed when I was _ten_ ,” Martin snaps. “I didn’t exactly have a wealth of opportunities after!”

That information settles oddly in Jon’s stomach, like food he can’t quite digest. He rallies himself in an attempt to understand the situation. “It felt like something swelling,” he says slowly, “and now I can’t move away. Shit. I think you knotted me.”

“I-- what?”

“You know. Knotting. Like dogs do?”

“I haven’t paid a lot of attention to how dogs fuck!” 

Jon frowns. Martin looks odd, ears flat to his head, the white of his eyes showing. More alarmingly, he’s scratching himself with his claws and doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you alright?” He tries to catch Martin’s hands. Thankfully, Martin lets him, stilling when Jon grips his wrists. 

Martin shuts his eyes. “I’ll be okay.” He doesn’t sound okay, breathing too fast and shallow, an edge of something like a whine to each exhalation. 

Maybe an explanation would help. Jon is usually calmer when he understands what’s happening. “I think the base of your penis inflated,” he says, “and now it’s wedged in tight, and I can’t move away.”

“That’s horrible,” Martin whispers. His fingers twitch, like he’s trying to scratch himself again. There’s wetness gathering in the corner of his eyes.

Horrified, Jon tries another tack. “What’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?” 

Martin bursts into hysterical giggles. “I really don’t.” To Jon’s guilty relief, it doesn’t look like he’s going to cry anymore. 

“It’s just that we might have to be here a while,” Jon says awkwardly. “This is your last chance to choose a conversational topic that isn’t the Fairy Godmothers’ reign of terror.”

Martin’s eyes spring open. “The _what_?”

Jon shifts, trying to make himself more comfortable. “It’s what I’ve been reading about,” he explains. “See, it started by them installing their puppet as a consort to the heir….”

* * *

By the time Martin’s cock slips out, Jon is lying on his chest, lightly drooling. He’d somehow talked himself to sleep; there had been a few minutes of overlap, when Martin half convinced himself he was imagining the snores that dotted his sentences. 

_How,_ Martin wonders, _do I keep winding up in these situations?_

He should wake Jon up and make the tea so he can drink it. He should leave in case he’s missed in the scullery. 

But Jon is warm, his weight just enough for Martin to feel it. 

_Just another minute,_ Martin tells himself as his own eyes slip shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- xenophilia  
> \- knotting (which both parties are surprised by)  
> \- very oblique hypothetical discussion of magnus doing awful things to babies  
> \- martin attempting to self injure  
> \- jon comparing martin to animals and distressing martin in the process
> 
> This got a bit long, so added a chapter to the count!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we go. More content notes than usual, so please check the end notes for them.

_Cursed_. The word bounces off Jon's consciousness at inopportune moments. He's thinking it as Martin draws him a bath. (Martin did explain all the knobs, but Jon can't quite get the water to the perfect temperature himself, and Martin does it in thirty seconds of fiddling.)

Martin averts his eyes, even now, as Jon takes off his bathrobe and slides into the water with a blissful sigh. "Anything else?" he asks.

Jon looks up at him, and hesitates. "I... I don't want to be rude."

That gets Martin looking at him. " _Now_ you don't want to be rude?"

Jon crosses his arms. "Well. Yes."

"Oh, go ahead already." Martin giggles. It never ceases to be odd: a monster that giggles.

Except it rankles, for some reason, to think of Martin as a monster. Still. An eight-foot furry being with fangs the size of Jon's pinky, giggling. It's interesting. Almost enough that Jon forgets his original question, but not quite. "Who cursed you?"

"My mum."

Jon pauses. "I'm sorry?" he tries.

"Thanks for the sympathy, I guess." Martin turns away. "I'll go get you more towels."

That leaves Jon alone with his thoughts. Even when Martin returns, bearing fluffy linens, he disappears soon after.

 _Cursed_. Jon had assumed that Martin, like Jared, had cut some deal with Magnus; a powerful, if monstrous, form, in return for their service. _Cursed_ meant Martin had not chosen his body, no more than Jon had chosen his own. At ten, no less, by his own mum.

That's... that's....

Something in the back of Jon's mind itches. Jon resolutely ignores it, and finishes washing up.

* * *

Jon's pacing the room when Martin brings him his dinner. "Jonah's due back tomorrow," he says to Martin's questioning look.

"Ah." Martin puts down the tray and fusses with the silverware placement. "You should eat and go to sleep," he says, for lack of better advice.

Jon gives a single, unhappy, _Ha!_ "I'm not going to be able to sleep."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Martin says, unthinking. A moment passes, and then Martin feels his face heating up.

"Did you just," Jon says, strangled.

"I meant like chamomile tea or something!" Martin stares determinedly down at his hooves. Then his gaze cautiously travels up.

His "Unless you wanted," coincides with Jon's, "Maybe you could...."

"Sorry," Martin says, "sorry, what did you say?"

"Nothing. Nothing. You?"

"Not anything important," Martin says, eyes still on his hooves.

They stand another minute in awkward silence.

"I suppose I'll be going," Martin says.

"Oh, for the love of... please?" Jon says. "Please don't make me say it."

"Alright," Martin says, already lightheaded with the prospect of tasting Jon again. "Alright."

Jon lies down on the bed, fussing with his bathrobe. "Do you mind if I just--?" He hikes it up.

"That's fine." Martin likes looking at Jon, but it's not strictly necessary. He lies down between Jon's legs and gets going.

When he's done, Jon says, "Wait," voice thick with sleep. "Come here." He pulls Martin up by the horns, not strong enough to move him if he didn't want to go, but insistent.

Martin goes, baffled. Jon's eyes keep slipping shut, and he keeps blinking them forcefully open. "It's okay to fall asleep," he says, "that was the entire point."

"I know, but first," Jon brings Martin's face close to his. With a determined expression, he lays a kiss on Martin's snout. Then he falls asleep without another word, hands thankfully slipping away from Martin's horns.

Martin blinks sudden wetness from his eyes, and doesn't reach up to touch the place where Jon kissed him. It burns like a brand. Martin wishes it was as permanent.

* * *

Jon's curled up on his side, sated. The texture of Martin's fur lingers on his lips, same as the feeling of Martin's gentle grip on his hips. He slides into sleep easily.

He dreams about his grandmother. She's walking up a hill with him, keeping pace with no difficulty. They don't talk, until they reach the top of the hill.

"What is that?" Jon whispers at the roiling ocean under them. What would be an ocean, if it were made of water. Instead, it seems to be made of storm clouds, buzzes of lightning arching between them.

Without looking at him, his grandma says, "What do you think?"

Jon shakes his head, dazed. "It's too much."

"Nobody's asking you to drink it at once." She gestures at his hands, and Jon realizes he's holding a cup. "Try."

Shaking, Jon bends down and fills his cup with lightning, wincing as it zaps his fingers. He watches it crackle in the cup. Under his grandmother's impatient eye, he drinks. 

_There are sixty three people who live in the castle. Of those, only three want to be there._

Jon blinks at the cup, and takes another sip.

_Elena Blackwood sold her fourteen years old son to Jonah Magnus, because - she said - he ate too much and wrecked all his clothing. Her son came meekly enough, for all that he was half again as big as the man who came for him._

Jon stares at his grandmother. "Why?" he asks. "Why this, why me, why now?"

"The first two, you know already," she says. "Why now? The gate is cracked open. This is what came through. You'll have more, in time."

Jon wakes up stuck to the sheets with sweat. The new pieces of knowledge sit in his mind like grit in a wound.

What is he meant to _do_ with this?

* * *

In his earlier plans, Jon thought of having Martin fuck him just before Jonah's usual visit. Let Jonah find him still stinking of sex. When he thought of asking, though, he remembered Martin's face as he knotted Jon, and reconsidered.

This is better, anyway. This way, he gets to see Jonah's face when he finds the memory in Jon's mind.

He hears the hubbub below that indicates Jonah's return, and carefully sets his mind to the political machinations of magical beings two hundred years ago.

Jonah comes to visit him soon after, looking amused. "This little tactic isn't very efficient, you know," he says. "It's very clear you have something you want to hide, and all I have to do is--" he falls silent as Jon tries to imagine Martin's knot at him as vividly as if it had just happened.

For one moment, Jonah's face is utterly blank.

Then, he laughs.

"Oh, Jon, you are adorable," he says. "And more open-minded than I expected! Of all my men, you had to pick the one who has a _knot_." He sounds positively gleeful.

Jon shrugs. Jonah's attempts at needling don't matter. "I'm not a virgin anymore, anyway," he says, matter-of-fact.

Jonah chuckles. "Oh, Jon. Jon. You have _other virginities_." The chuckles turn into outright laughter when Jon feels himself paling. "You are absolutely _delectable_. Never fear, Jon. Now that I know you're so adventurous, I will think up something more stimulating for your deflowering. Your _second_ deflowering."

* * *

When Jared comes for him, Martin isn't surprised. He puts down the sock he's mending and follows Jared to the cupboard in the attic. No use drawing out his punishment.

As he tries to make himself comfortable in a space too small to stand or lie down or stretch out his legs, Martin still thrums with low-burning fear. This isn't punishment yet. This is just - storage, putting Martin away until they decide what's to be done with him for his crime of defiling the Mage's intended.

Finally, some time later, the cupboard's door is wrenched open. Martin squints in the sudden light. "Come on," Jared says.

Martin sighs and trots along. He's expecting Jared to take him out to the back yard and break his neck, if he's lucky, or get some more creative kicks in if he's not, but that's not the way they're going. Despite himself, he's afraid.

He wishes he could wrap himself in memories of Jon, like a blanket, but he doesn't want the Mage to see them. Childish of him, especially since the Mage could dig into his brain as easily as dipping a spoon into a soft-boiled egg, but he wants Magnus to have to exert himself that much to get to those memories.

For one moment, before he can quell it, he remembers Jon's kiss. That, at least, wasn't given to him begrudgingly. There was no reason Jon had to do it. Maybe it was pity, but Jon had given it freely. Martin has had that much of him. He reckons that's enough to be worth whatever Magnus does to him.

As they keep going, Martin isn't just frightened, he's puzzled. They're going into corridors where he'd never been, the upper rooms of Magnus's private wing, where the lesser servants aren't allowed, even to clean. Whatever Magnus wants to do to him, couldn't he have done it as well from his office?

They come to a massive oaken door, and Jared pushes him through.

The first thing Martin sees is Jon, laid naked on a large bed in the center of the room. For a single, bestial moment that's all Martin sees, and his body starts reacting before he takes the rest of it in.

Jon has his head laid in Magnus's lap, the Mage's fingers sliding proprietarily through Jon's long, dark hair. Jon's hands are behind his back, and his legs are tied to the bedpost. There are candles flickering, just enough for the room to be dim and shadowy to people who aren't Martin. Around the room, men are sitting, men Martin had glimpsed before in passing: cronies of Magnus. They look expectant, leering. One of them, an older gentleman in an outrageous suit, has his hand blatantly down his pants.

Stunned, Martin can at least understand why Magnus didn't use his office.

"Ah, Martin," Magnus says. "So good of you to join us. Jared, bring him here."

Jared shoves Martin, who goes stumbling forward to that bed. The room stinks of cigar smoke, which is why it took Martin this long to notice the stench of fear rolling of Jon in waves. 

"Jon seems fond of you," Magnus says. "It is kind of him to take such an interest in you. I hope you're appropriately honored."

Numb and struck speechless, all Martin can do is nod.

Jon's hair runs like a dark waterfall over Magnus's lap. "Since Jon has seen fit to lose one virginity to you," he says, unperturbed, "I thought, why not another one or two? This time, with a properly appreciative audience." He beckons Martin closer.

Martin looks at Jonah Magnus, the man who's owned his life since he was fourteen, the man he'd seen reduce others to smoldering, screaming ruins, the man he'd obeyed unthinkingly for so many years.

Jon isn't making a sound, but a wet trail glistens down his face.

"No," Martin says. There was never any other answer.

Magnus raises his eyebrows. "Well. Now even your pet won't have you; isn't that sad?" He gestures expansively with his unoccupied hand. "Never mind. I'm sure Jared isn't as picky."

"You think I'd take that beast's leftovers?" Jared says. Then he shrugs. "Suppose I will. Turn him over." With one massive hand, he starts removing his trousers. 

"He should be big enough to satisfy you," Magnus says to Jon, who is staring blankly at the ceiling. "And if it's a knot you require, I'm sure the kennel could supply us with some."

"Wait!" says a voice. Martin is startled to realize that that voice came from him. Magnus looks to him again. "No, wait. I, I'll do it." 

"Jealous?" Magnus says lightly, but doesn't wait to watch Martin's reaction. 

Martin's shaking as he approaches the bed. Death would be better than this, whatever torturous un-death the Mage could devise for him would be better than this, but at least he hopes he can make it bearable for Jon. If the scent-memory of Jon's fear and pain keeps haunting Martin for the rest of his life, well, he doubts that would be very long anyway. 

"Does it even have a cock?" one of the cigar-smoking gentlemen inquires. 

"I'm assured he does. One that knots. Martin, give everyone a good look." Martin can't even wish to be struck by lightning on the spot, because that would leave Jon alone with the rest of them. "Here," Magnus says, when Martin fails to produce an erection, "let me help."

The taste and smell of Jon's pleasure hit Martin like a tidal wave, but there's something different to them, sinister, wrong. Jon's cries don't quite sound like enjoyment; he's sure he didn't hold Jon this hard, not hard enough to break skin and leave bruises.

Even twisted, the memory lets Martin's cock rise out of his sheath. Martin can't help a sob. The men in the room look away in disgust, or worse, lean in with malicious curiosity. "I say, that's a sizeable member," says one of them. "Sure your bride can take it? He's such a little thing."

Again, Magnus says, "I am assured he can. Well?" He addresses Martin with a touch of impatience. "He's not going to deflower himself." He chuckles. "I'm sure if he could, he would have already!" The room fills with polite titters. 

The few steps to the bed seem a million miles long, but even so, Martin finds himself before Jon. Crouched over him, Martin is incredibly conscious of his fangs, his cock still shamefully hard. 

Jon closes his eyes. That's a mercy. 

Magnus doesn't approve. "Look, Jon," he coaxes. "Look at what you've allowed inside yourself. Look at the only face that could want you. I said, _look_." His voice is like a whiplash, and Jon's eyes snap open, lids forced apart by a thin thread of magic. 

Jon is still silent, but a fresh bout of tears rolls from his eyes. Martin looks up, and sees Magnus, powerful and gleeful and absolutely focused on Jon.

Martin's claws slash through the Mage's face with only the barest resistance. Magnus opens his mouth - to scream, hopefully - and Martin lunges for his throat. 

Jared catches him by the scruff of his neck before he can deal more than cursory damage. The only thing Martin regrets is that Magnus is still breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Attempted rape  
> \- attempting to rape someone by coercing them to commit rape  
> \- threat of bestiality  
> \- humiliation in front of an audience  
> \- slut-shaming  
> \- messing with memories  
> \- intensifying dysphoria by forcing someone to be watched  
> \- violence and blood  
> \- dehumanization  
> \- cliffhanger!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to TwoDrunkCelestials for beta!!

Jon is dragged back to his room, hands still tied behind his back, by an indifferent guard. She did let Jon wrap himself in the bed's top sheet, so he was spared the further humiliation of walking the hallways naked. She even cut his hands loose, once they'd arrived in his room.

Half an hour passes with Jon huddled and shaking in his chair before he realizes he still has Jonah's blood on his face. His first response is a visceral satisfaction.

Then he goes to clean up, and hope the entire day will wash off as well.

Messing with the knobs for the bath makes him think about Martin, so Jon gives himself a cursory wash in the basin instead. He closes his eyes to ignore the gigantic mirror in front of him.

_The glass for the mirror came from Iskandria,_ Jon abruptly knows. He knows the name of the ship it came in on, padded with many bags of wool, and how many months that ship spent at sea.

He hobbles back to his bed, and everything he sees forces a wealth of useless information into his head. The name of the woman who carved the headboard for his bed, the composition of the glue used in the book bindings, the exact number of ants lurking under the floors, which Jon could really have done without.

When he reaches the bed, he touches it and knows that Martin had hummed an old song when he'd made it. A lullaby his father had sung to him so long ago that Martin no longer recalled how he'd learned it. That Martin paid careful attention to keeping the sheet taut, to make the bed comfortable, because he'd noticed Jon wasn't sleeping well.

Jon gives up on dignity and courage, and buries his face in the pillow. It smells like lavender, which Martin had put in the laundry water--

He shuts his eyes tightly and waits for the flood of information to recede, breathing shallowly. He needs to _think_ , God damn it, to come up with some way to stay Martin's execution in the morning.

"I will make sure the court is in session," Jonah said earlier, words slurred through the bandages on his face. "I'd simply have him put down, but this display calls for an example to be made." His uninjured eye narrowed at Jon. "Let everyone know exactly what crimes that beast committed."

But instead of a plan, between bursts of unwanted knowledge, all Jon can think of is what a selfish idiot he'd been.

Martin is a servant. He had no power to refuse Jon, and Jon made him. It was Martin's first time, too. Jon took that away from him: the opportunity to make it a good memory, a happy one. He was no better than Jonah. And now, because of Jon, Martin is going to die.

All of which is true, and also _profoundly unhelpful_ in actually preventing said death.

Jon stares at the ceiling. At least he'll have the night to think through. Not like he's going to fall asleep.

Even thinking about sleep is a mistake, because it brings up the last time Jon asked Martin for... assistance. It seemed like Martin volunteered it happily enough, but given that it didn't occur to Jon that Martin would be _put to death_ for this, what else might he have missed?

Jon groans and punches the pillow. In the stream of facts trickling into his mind, he can now see the death of the goose whose down he lies on. How its neck was wrung by tough, uncaring hands, how the broken body kept twitching for long, torturous moments. He flinches, and shivers, and forces himself to accept the knowledge, not push it away. He's ignored enough suffering.

* * *

Martin doesn't know where he is. It's dark, cramped, and silent except for the distant dripping of water. The last thing he remembers is Jared pinning him down, and Magnus snarling, "You will pay for this!"

But Martin's known that all along. It's worth the cost, and he's not sorry.

Here, alone, in the dark, he lets himself remember waking up with Jon lying on top of him, Jon sleepily clutching his fur and rubbing his cheek against it. For that moment, Martin could be glad of his body, if only for the enjoyment Jon found in it.

He does worry that Jon, too, will pay the price for what they did together. Jon, beautiful and book-smart and foolhardy, so single-minded he forgets to eat or sleep. It's amazing how much you can learn about someone from cleaning up after them, and Jon has been an education in his own right. If Magnus extinguishes that brightness, Martin will....

Well, Martin will be dead. Maybe he can haunt Magnus. Though, given Martin's luck so far, Magnus would find a way to bind his ghost into service, too.

Martin taps his claws against the wall: stone, fit to hold in a monster. He probably still has the Mage's blood on his claws. He could, Martin realizes, cut his own throat, spare himself and Jon the humiliation of the execution. Find a little dignity in death.

But Martin has never chosen dignity over anything that mattered, and he doesn't see a point in starting now. Let Magnus kill him himself; he's not going to do the Mage's dirty work for him, not any more.

* * *

The morning of the execution finds Jon gritty-eyed and exhausted, but no closer to coming up with a solution.

It occurs to him that Jonah delights in his degradation. Maybe if Jon begged him, groveled and crawled, Jonah would spare Martin's life. But for once, he thinks it through: if he does this, Jonah will hold Martin's well-being over Jon's head until one of them dies.

Keep it as a last resort, then. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with a plan to kill Jonah Magnus - one that Jonah will not easily foil by peeking into Jon's mind.

The cold-eyed guard is the one who takes Jon to the execution. She doesn't mock him, at least, or try to grope him.

People have already gathered around, in a wide semi-circle around where the black-hooded executioner stands with his wicked-looking axe and the broad block. Jonah's waiting a little distance away from it. The guard brings Jon to him, and waits a little way behind them.

"I thought about burning, or perhaps impalement," Jonah says. "But those are so messy, and difficult to arrange on short notice. Then I thought, let's slaughter that beast like it deserves. And there you have it." The unmangled corner of his mouth turns up. "I suggest that you don't look away, Jon. There's a valuable lesson here for you to learn."

The shitty thing is that there is, there really is, even if it's miles away from what Jonah wants him to learn. But Jon learned it too late, and now somebody else will bear the cost.

Jared is the one to bring Martin in, wrapped in so many chains that even he staggers under their weight. Jared forces him to his knees next to the executioner's block.

Jonah waves his hand and floats a little in the air, his voice unnaturally loud. "Behold the outcome of deviance!" he says. "This wretched monster has engaged in unnatural congress with bride to be, stealing his virginity." Jonah keeps going, but Jon's only barely listening.

He's looking at Martin, who catches his eye. Martin bares his fangs, and it takes Jon a moment to place the expression as an attempt at a reassuring smile.

"No," Jon whispers, as Jonah drones on. He feels his heart cracking like ice at early thaw, and he's assaulted by images and scents and voices, the last week condensed into a blur of memory.

Not just his memories. He hears Martin's memories, and the guard's, and the people in the watching crowd; even the dogs, even the very stones, and there isn't one who hasn't personally suffered because of Jonah's cruelty and greed.

The crack widens. The flood gates open. Jon turns to look at Jonah.

"No," he says again. He speaks softly, but he knows everyone can hear him. Jonah stops, surprised, and look back at him. "You hurt us. You hurt all of us, and it's time you stopped." Jonah begins to answer, but Jon overrules him, speaking louder. "Look at him," he says to the gathered audience. "Look at him! Let him know all the pain he's caused, and let him feel it."

Jonah starts smiling, but his expression falters as the storm clouds gather behind Jon's eyes. As he gathers every memory of torment, every single awful moment of agony, and spins it around Jonah, tighter and tighter. "Feel it," Jon says. "See it. _Look_."

Jonah opens his mouth. All that comes out is a feeble scream as the ropes dig tighter and tighter, and finally Jonah pops like a bubble and disappears.

Jon flinches, awaiting the spurt of blood, but there isn't any. There's only a shallow puddle of dark, brackish water where Jonah Magnus stood. Jon straightens and stares at Jared. "Chains. Off. Now." Jared hastens to obey.

Jon takes a step forward and stumbles. He would have fallen except that Martin, with superhuman speed, hurried to his side and supported him. Just for a second, Jon closes his eyes and rests the side of his head against Martin's chest.

He opens his eyes. He has work to do. "Thank you," he tells Martin softly. He stands up tall and says, "Does anybody know who inherits the Mage's place?"

For a moment, everyone is silent. Then a nearby man - one of the higher servants, if Jon recalls correctly - timidly says, "By magical law and right of betrothal, you do. M'lord."

"Oh," Jon says, blinking. He sways. "That's. That's--"

Martin catches him again before he falls, and Jon gives in to unconsciousness held in Martin's arms.

* * *

By the time Jon's eyes flicker open, Martin has almost finished his pile of socks to darn.

When he lays eyes on Martin, the first thing Jon says is, "You don't have to do this anymore."

Martin looks down at the sock he's holding. He shrugs. "Somebody needs to. It's something to do with my hands. How are you feeling?"

Jon groans and flops on his back. "I have a headache the size of a continent," he says, "but I'm assured it will pass."

Martin narrows his eyes. "Assured how?" If Jon expires now from using too much magic to save Martin's life, that would be sufficiently awful to be believable, but Martin's not going to take it lying down.

Jon laughs, short and hoarse. "I know," he simply says. "I know a lot of things, now."

"Oh. Good," Martin says weakly.

"Mm, I suppose? Most of them are terrible. But if I got rid of Jonah Magnus, then that's worth it." Jon rises on his elbows. "Why am I in bed and you're doing chores? You're the one who almost died this morning."

Martin tries to understand this and fails. "What good would it do to anyone if I were in bed? I can work."

"But you don't have to," Jon repeats. Quietly, he says, "You don't have to stay. You're free to leave, you know."

Martin huffs. "And go _where_ , exactly?"

This doesn't seem to ease Jon's mind. "I could find a place for you," he says. "Some cottage by the sea."

"Where I could live alone and have small children throw rocks at me when I come into town? No thank you." Martin shifts in his chair. "I'd rather stay here. People are used to me, here."

"Martin." Jon's voice takes on a deeper timber, low and earnest and gorgeous like the rest of him. "I owe you... considerably more than my life. And I used you terribly. I don't want you to be stuck with me for the rest of our lives."

Martin blinks. "Um. What? Jon. This week was the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"I've seen your memories," Jon snaps, "so I happen to know that's a very low bar!" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. My personality is appalling and you deserve better."

"Well, maybe I don't want better!" Martin snaps right back. "If being stuck with you is on the table, I'll take it, thank you very much."

Jon exhales. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "It is on the table."

Martin stares at him. Jon can't mean what Martin is hoping. With enormous daring, he rests his paw on Jon's hand, light and tentative. "Is... is this what's on the table?"

Jon focuses on Martin's paw like it's a book in a foreign language. "I want to touch you," he says. "In ways both of us like, and I want you to touch me. I want you to sleep in my bed. I want you to be in my life."

"Okay," Martin says, light-headed. But he can't help pushing his luck far enough to ask, "Why?"

Jon wrinkles his nose, puzzled. "You're the kindest person I know. You're brave. I like you. Why wouldn't I?"

"But. I mean." Martin gestures at himself. "I'm not exactly good looking."

Jon, after a moment's thought, shrugs. "You're interesting-looking. That matters more." He pauses, and cringes. "That was rude to say, wasn't it?"

Martin can't stop himself laughing, somewhere on the line between joy and hysteria. "No," he says. "It's wonderful." He's been half convinced he's dreaming this entire exchange, that he was going to wake up in the stone cell. But there's no way his brain could have come up with an answer that was so perfectly _Jon_.

Jon purses. "So how about," he says, "you put the mending here," he points to one of the ubiquitous side tables, "and I come sit in your lap?" He surveys Martin's face, concerned.

That's probably because Martin feels like his brain just fried, and it reflects in his expression. "I'd like that," he manages to croak out.

They arrange themselves, and then Martin has a lapful of Jon to hold. He keeps his arms around Jon, careful not to crush him, to hold him securely. Jon smells like lavender, which fills Martin with proprietary delight.

"I should work, if I'm conscious," Jon says, head resting against Martin's chest. He badly stifles a yawn. "There's so much to do."

"There is," Martin agrees, but still he strokes Jon's hair until Jon's lax and gently snoring against him. The work will still be there when he wakes up, and Jon needs his rest, just as much as Martin needs to hold him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- animal death (in the last paragraph of the first scene)  
> \- story-typical Jonah awfulness  
> \- humiliation and dehumanization  
> \- on-screen human death (not Jon or Martin's)
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I might be writing sequellettes where they iron out their relationship (which they have a Lot of to do).

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the Jon/Martin will be dubconny due to miscommunications. They are still the endgame pairing.


End file.
